by John Marco
‘I have told him that you are happy to be here,’ said Lucyler. ‘And that you are impressed by his home.’
‘His home? I thought it was Tharn’s now. Do all of Kronin’s men live here?’
‘The citadel is home to many, as you will see. Kronin is Tharn’s protector now, and all of his warriors are, too. When the war ended and Kronin’s castle at Mount Godon was destroyed, he was brought here to live and continue his reign over Tatterak.’
Hakan nodded agreeably, as if he understood. ‘Kuaoa akei eiunb, Kalak.’
Richius felt his heart stop. Kalak? He turned to Lucyler and watched the Triin’s face go even paler.
‘Did he call me Kalak?’
‘He does not understand,’ said Lucyler quickly, then broke into a string of words aimed squarely at the puzzled warrior. Hakan bowed his head again, uttering some low, apologetic gibberish.
‘He asks your forgiveness,’ translated Lucyler. ‘He did not understand your offense. No insult was meant.’
‘Obviously not,’ said Richius, embarrassed by the man’s apology. ‘Hakan,’ he said loudly. ‘Stop now. Lucyler, how do I tell him to stop?’
Lucyler spoke the order for him, and Hakan at last straightened, careful to speak only to Lucyler. Then the warrior bowed again to each of them, turned, and started off back up the long, dim road.
‘He will go tell the others we are coming,’ said Lucyler.
‘Kalak,’ spat Richius. ‘Am I never to be rid of that horrible name?’
‘You are well known by that name here, Richius, but it is no insult. Remember, Kronin and his people hate Voris as much as you do; more perhaps. That is why you are talked about here. They are not Drol. When they call you the Jackal, they do it proudly. You are the enemy of their enemy.’
‘I thought you told me Kronin and Voris are at peace now.’
‘And so they are. But that does not mean they care for each other. They endure the peace for Tharn’s sake, nothing more.’
‘Your Tharn must really be something for so many men to follow him,’ said Richius caustically. ‘Perhaps he is a better sorcerer than any of you realize.’
Lucyler ignored the gibe. ‘You will see for yourself soon enough.’
‘Indeed. But I won’t meet him dressed like this,’ Richius said, peeling off the rancid garments he had disguised himself in since leaving Ackle-Nye. One by one the buttons of his cloak opened, until at last the leather of his uniform shone in the moonlight. He undid the cowl from around his neck and head, then stripped the cloak from his arms and back like the shedding skin of a snake. Once again he was in his armor of dark leather, displaying the proud blue dragon on his left breast. Something for Tharn to see, he thought. Something to remind him of a slaughtered war duke.
‘There,’ he declared, dropping the disguise to the ground. ‘Much better.’
Lucyler took the jiiktar off his back and prodded at the clothes with the weapon, hooking them with the curved blade and snatching them up.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Richius. ‘I’m not putting it back on, Lucyler.’
‘It is not for you,’ replied the Triin coolly. ‘There are many who can use such clothes. They should not be wasted.’
‘Wasted? But they’re rags.’
Lucyler quietly tucked the grimy clothing into his saddlebags. As if reminded of something, Richius peered into his own bags, satisfied to see a scarlet swatch of silk peeking from beneath his own folded clothes. A childlike grin danced on his face as he fingered the fine fabric. Dyana would adore it, he was sure.
‘Ready?’ he asked Lucyler eagerly. The Triin gave a gruff reply and they started up the smooth road toward the citadel. The air grew colder as they climbed, filling their noses with the briny scent of the sea. They could hear it dashing against the shore far, far below, could hear too the subtle cries of gulls as they winged through the night. It took them many minutes to crest the mountaintop, and when they did Richius felt dwarfed by the magnificent structure. Two immense gates of brass dominated the façade, flanked by twin spires of silver that disappeared into the blackness above them. On every wall and every terrace was a blooming tangle of vines. There were no battlements, only gardened balconies where little silhouettes shimmered in the moonlight like lovers on a river of light. The pale glow of the torches bathed the citadel in orange and sent their shadows winging against the silver stone, and the stone itself seemed vital and new, as if polished to a jewel’s luster.
‘You didn’t exaggerate,’ said Richius, his head tilted back to find the end of the endless spires. ‘I am speechless.’
The citadel’s gates were opened wide to greet them. Richius pushed Lightning forward, not bothering to wait for his friend. From within the giant, enclosed courtyard he could hear voices, all chattering in the mysterious tongue of Lucel-Lor. Somewhere within these walls was Dyana. Would she be waiting for him? He peered through the court, and one by one the faces there popped into focus. A hush dropped over them as Richius rode into their midst.
He had expected to see nobles here, or whatever Tharn was calling his lackeys. What he saw instead was every form of destitute humanity. It was as if all of Ackle-Nye had been jammed into the place.
‘Lucyler,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘What is this?’
They were coming up to him now, their eyes filled with a kind of childlike wonder. Old men and women, children with grimy faces, the ragged, the lame and the broken. Was this Falindar? Richius looked over the dirty heads to the high walls and noticed at once that they were barren, stripped of every kind of ornament, leaving only dark outlines where once, he was sure, things of value had been displayed. There were no paintings, no statues, no chandeliers or candelabras or gilded curtains. There was no carpeting, no tapestries hanging from the vaulted ceiling, no gold and no silver. Astounded, Richius gazed down on the swarm closing in around him. They were smiling at him. Each face wore the same ingratiating grin the warrior had shown. And there were warriors in this dismal mix, their blue garb unmistakable amid the drab grays and browns of the peasant folk. None spoke but all watched, fascinated by the Naren nobleman.
‘What is this, Lucyler?’ Richius asked again. ‘Who are these people?’
‘They are the lost of Tatterak,’ replied Lucyler. ‘The ones left destitute by the war.’ He dug into his saddlebags and pulled out the ratty cloak, tossing it into the crowd. A quick little man in tattered clothes snatched it up.
‘Do all these people live here?’
‘Not all. Many live in the hills and try to farm. But there is not much left for them. Gayle’s men were not as kind as your Edgard, Richius. In the last days of the war they destroyed everything they could, burning villages and even forests so the people here couldn’t build new homes. Most of them have no place else to go. That is why they are here, for shelter and food. This is a place of the people now, by Tharn’s decree.’
‘But it’s been almost a year. Surely they have rebuilt by now.’
Lucyler shook his head sadly. ‘They are trying, but there is not much left to build with. Tatterak is mostly rock. So all are welcome in the citadel now, to live here if they wish or to simply take a meal. There is not much food, but it is rationed and everyone gets something.’
‘Dear God,’ whispered Richius. ‘I had no idea things were so bad here. Why didn’t you tell me, Lucyler?’
‘Because I did not want you to worry about the woman. And because I wanted you to see it for yourself. You did not believe me when I told you Tharn is a man of peace. But here is the proof. Everything of value has been stripped from this place and given to the needy so that they may barter for the things they require. This whole area was ruined, but Tharn is trying to restore it.’
‘But they were not so poor in Dandazar,’ Richius pointed out. ‘What happened here?’
‘Dandazar was far from the war. All the lands between here and Mount Godon were ruined. It is like this almost everywhere there was fighting. All burned. All gone.’
Richius threw up his hands. ‘I don’t understand this at all,’ he said bitterly. ‘Tharn was the cause of the war. Have all these people forgotten that? He is to blame for their plight, yet they follow him. It doesn’t make sense.’
‘Tharn has united them,’ Lucyler said bleakly. ‘He is touched by the gods.’
‘Nonsense. Look at this mess. None of this would have happened if not for him. You say he brought peace to Lucel-Lor, but all I see is the destruction of war. He freed Lucel-Lor from Nar only to ruin it.’ Richius paused, shaking his head. ‘Where is Dyana? Is she living here with these refugees?’
‘Do not worry,’ said Lucyler. ‘The woman is well looked after. She lives in the upper rooms of the citadel in her own chamber. Tharn takes care of her.’
I’m sure, thought Richius angrily. Just like he takes care of the rest of them.
‘I want to see her,’ he demanded. ‘Now.’
‘First you should see Tharn,’ said Lucyler. ‘Dyana is his wife, after all.’
‘Fine. As long as it’s quick.’
They began to dismount when a figure appeared out of the crowd. The gathering parted a little as he neared. A warrior, Richius realized at once, and something more. He was taller than the other Triin, but no less thin, with a body as lithe as a reed. His hair was streaked with shades of lime, and his eyes shone steel gray past the green belt of paint encircling his face like a blindfold. He wore the indigo jacket of Tatterak’s tribe, but his was cinched not with a sash but with the wide, spotted hide of a snow leopard. The same skins draped from his narrow shoulders in a cape that dragged along the floor as he walked. Here among the tattered he looked truly regal, and Richius guessed his identity instantly.
‘Kronin.’
Kronin, warlord of Tatterak and archnemesis of Voris the Wolf, glided through the crowd effortlessly, his head high and determined as he locked eyes with Richius. Two golden chains linked around his boots jingled with his stride, as did his bracelets and dangling earrings. In less than a moment he was before them. And then the warlord of Tatterak fell to one knee before Richius, bowing his head to the floor. He took Richius’ hand in his own and brought it carefully to his lips, then placed the most gentle of kisses on it. Amazed, Richius glanced over at Lucyler for an explanation, but the Triin seemed as stunned as he was. This was a greeting one would expect in Nar, not from a warlord of Lucel-Lor. Richius was shocked that Kronin would even know of the custom.
‘Joaala akka,’ said Kronin silkily. ‘Tew banney Totterahk jin joanay.’ The warlord rose to his feet without waiting for an answer. He regarded Richius dutifully.
‘Kronin greets you, Richius,’ began Lucyler. ‘He says it is a high honor to meet you, and that you are welcome in Tatterak always.’
Richius beamed. ‘Please tell him that this is a great honor for me as well. Tell him that I have heard much of him, and that he is spoken of in Aramoor as the bravest of all Lucel-Lor’s warlords.’
Kronin’s face split with a wide smile as he listened to Lucyler’s translation. Again he spoke, directly to Richius.
‘He says your words glorify him,’ Lucyler continued. ‘He wishes that he had been with you in the valley, and that you had been able to slay Voris.’
Richius laughed, unsure how to answer. For a man at peace, Kronin still seemed obsessed with his Drol enemy. Kronin laughed, too, a brassy guffaw that belied his lean stature. Then the warlord of Tatterak hooked his thumbs into his leopard-skin belt and sighed.
‘Eedgod,’ he said sadly. When Richius shrugged he repeated the word, this time pointing to the dragon insignia emblazoned on Richius’ breast. ‘Eedgod.’
‘Edgard!’ realized Richius. ‘Yes. Lucyler, tell him we were of the same brigade.’
Kronin nodded as Lucyler translated, then broke into a fanciful speech, raising and dropping his arms and putting his hand to his heart.
‘Edgard was a great man,’ said Lucyler. ‘The warlord says he was broken by the news of his death.’
Richius smiled bleakly at Kronin. ‘I understand. Thank you, Kronin. Shay sar.’
Kronin cooed like a boy at hearing his language from Richius. ‘Tryn?’ he asked.
Lucyler shook his head. ‘Eya,’ he answered the warlord. ‘Kronin wanted to know if you spoke our tongue,’ he explained.
Kronin pointed his finger at himself, then to Lucyler, then to Richius. He spoke very slowly, as if trying to give Richius time to understand.
‘What’s he saying, Lucyler?’
‘He says that he will be here for you, too. If you need anything, you are to come to him. He also asks that you sit with him at the feast tomorrow.’
‘Feast? What feast?’
‘In celebration of Casadah. Tharn has invited all of Tatterak to share in the celebration. Falindar will be open to everyone, and there will be a banquet in honor of the day. Kronin asks for your company at the banquet.’
Richius gestured skeptically at the peasants filling the hall. ‘How can Tharn afford a banquet? These people look starved.’
‘Everyone has been saving their best for Casadah,’ said Lucyler. ‘And anyone who has food has been asked to bring it so that it may be shared.’
Kronin nodded, feigning understanding. He was waiting for an answer.
‘What shall I tell him, Richius?’
‘Tell him I would be honored to feast with him tomorrow, but that I may be on my way early. I will enjoy his company as long as I can. Ask him also if he would be willing to answer a question from me.’
Lucyler translated, and Kronin nodded.
‘Please ask him if I may see Tharn tonight. Tell him that I have much to discuss with his master.’
Lucyler hesitated, then asked the question anyway. Kronin’s smile melted away. He turned to Lucyler and answered in a low, distressed voice. Lucyler exchanged more words with the warrior, then glanced at Richius.
‘I am sorry, Richius,’ began Lucyler haltingly. ‘Kronin says you cannot meet with Tharn tonight.’
‘But why? Doesn’t he know I’m here?’
‘He has been told. But Kronin says that he is . . . occupied.’
Richius could hardly hide his exasperation. ‘Occupied? What’s that supposed to mean? Ask him again.’
Lucyler shook his head. ‘I will not. He has explained it to me already. It is impossible.’
‘What about Dyana, then? Can I see her?’
Lucyler’s face crinkled. ‘That is not possible, either.’
Richius looked from one to the other before putting the fractured pieces of their conversation together. ‘He’s with her, isn’t he?’ he asked.
‘Tharn is with his wife,’ replied Lucyler. ‘I am sorry, Richius. But listen to me, it is not what you think.’
Richius laughed bitterly. ‘Oh, no. I’m sure you’re right. What do you think they’re up to, eh? A card game?’
‘Easy,’ warned Lucyler. Kronin was staring intently at Richius, obviously confused by his outburst. ‘You must trust me. What you are imagining is wrong.’
‘I’m a grown man, Lucyler. You needn’t spare my feelings. Tell Kronin I accept what he has said and that I’ll see him tomorrow.’
‘Richius, let me explain . . .’
‘Just tell him, Lucyler.’
Lucyler did as Richius asked. Kronin listened courteously, bowing to both of them when the conversation was over then disappearing into the crowd. When he had gone Richius let out a gigantic sigh.
‘I’m very tired, Lucyler,’ said Richius. ‘Could you find me some quarters?’
‘Yes, you should rest. Come, I will take you up into the north tower.’
Lucyler led Richius through the courtyard to a place where they could take their horses, conversing with the man there to look after them. Richius was careful to take all of his belongings with him, unstrapping his saddlebags and his crossbow from Lightning’s back. They then went through a confusing maze of hallways, all as bleak as the great hall, and finally up an endless spiral staircase fitted wi
th oil lamps along its curving walls. They climbed for what seemed an eternity, coming at last to another labyrinthine circuit of halls.
‘This is where the better quarters are,’ said Lucyler. ‘My own rooms are up here.’
Richius looked around, unimpressed. The place seemed as barren as the rest of the citadel. But he relished the quiet, thinking that soon he would be blissfully asleep behind one of the hall’s many doors. And then another, more interesting thought occurred to him.
‘Are Tharn’s quarters here?’
‘No. They are in another wing of the tower. Come, I will take you to my chamber. You can sleep there for the night. Tomorrow I will find you quarters of your own.’
They came to a narrow, rounded doorway near the end of the main hall. Outside of the chamber was a sconce holding a small candle, already burned half away. The candle was unlit. Lucyler took it from the sconce and dipped its tip in a nearby oil lamp, setting its wick aflame. When he opened the door to his chamber the tiny flame painted the room with a dull orange glow.
‘Come in,’ said Lucyler quietly, waving Richius into the chamber. Except for the small illumination of the candle flame and a struggling sliver of moonlight from the window, the room was dark. It was not much bigger than a room one might find in an inn, and hardly as well appointed. There was a single bed of wood covered with a cotton mattress, a washbasin with a water pitcher, and little else. The floor was strewn with miscellaneous items, clothes mostly, and some books with bindings like those in the Empire. A chair in the corner of the room was also buried under a stack of possessions, unrecognizable in the darkness. Richius couldn’t help but wonder which of them would wind up sleeping on the chair. He added to the mess by dropping his saddlebags and crossbow by the doorway.
‘There is not much room,’ said Lucyler apologetically. He put the candle gently into a silver holder by the bedside. It was the only thing of seeming value in the place.
‘It’s fine,’ replied Richius cheerfully. ‘Hell, I’d be happy to sleep on the floor after what we’ve been through.’
